FATHER UNKNOWN

Chapter Two

Mattie settled into the overstuffed chair at the end of the rectangular living room, and casually rested her feet on the enormous ottoman. “I’m assuming you are all acquainted by now with Karen.”

Frances, Annette, and Karen sat together on the long sofa in front of the large picture window overlooking the backyard where their children played. From her nearby bench, the grandmotherly Grace held Sissy on her lap, silver head bent over coppery curls. Rita sat next to them, staring at the ground.

Across from the three mothers in the room, on the other side of a heavy round oak coffee table offering magazines and a crystal cigarette container filled with neatly stacked cigarettes, Laverne and Joyce sat on the matching love seat. An ashtray and lighter completed the cigarette set on the coffee table. All but Karen and Joyce smoked.

Joyce spoke first. “Yes, we’ve been introduced, but that‘s all!”

Laverne inhaled deeply, blew smoke toward the ceiling, and stared blankly out the window. Annette smiled sympathetically in Karen‘s direction.

Karen caressed her injured arm, massaging it gently near the shoulder, and focused her attention on her children beyond the window. She obviously wasn’t interested in conversation with the other women. Keeping her posture stiff and erect, she sent a very clear message that all she wanted was to get this meeting behind her.

This visibly annoyed Joyce. “Karen is really worryin’ me!” She spoke as though Karen wasn’t even there. “Acts like she don’t belong here, like she’s here by mistake, or something’, like she‘s being imposed upon!”

Frances chewed her bottom lip and watched Joyce curiously, shaking her auburn bobbed head slowing from side to side.

“Like her situation‘s different,” Joyce charged on. Crossing her arms and raising her blond eyebrows, she gave Mattie a green-eyed, sideways squint, and pursed her lips. “From the looks of her, she most definitely belongs here!” Then, switching her gaze to Karen, she asked directly. “Was this the first time that son of a bitch hit you?” Joyce tucked one leg beneath her small body, and smoothed her skirt around her knees, waiting for Karen to speak.

Joyce had moved to Texas from Tennessee, leaving her husband and son buried there. They had been killed in a car crash not two blocks from their home, returning from baseball practice one early spring evening. Joyce quickly discovered the wonderfully numbing qualities of vodka, and commenced to self-medicate herself into a state she could live with enough to get her through the day. And the night. The vodka worked as long as she kept drinking, so she kept drinking. By the time she was thirty, she had sauced herself into full blown alcoholism, hanging out in the Nashville bars, finding plenty of men to buy her drinks. She was a pretty woman, diminutive, quick-witted, and lively. When drunk enough, she sometimes laughed again. She avoided sobriety, for it sank her into depression, and she hated being alone. So, she had moved in with Kenny, a songwriter from Texas trying to make the big time in Country Music.

Nashville was full of songwriters, but few of them as bad as Kenny. When he decided Memphis was a better fit for his special talent, Joyce went with him. From Memphis, they headed to California, by way of Dallas. In Dallas, Kenny turned on Joyce one night, taking out all his disappointment on her. They both had been drunk, Joyce did not remember the beating when she woke up in Parkland Hospital two days later with two missing teeth, a fractured pelvis, and a cracked skull. That was the first time Kenny almost killed her. The last time was two months ago, and Joyce had not had a drink since.

Karen had busied herself with her children at breakfast, remaining detached from the others, offering only a few polite words when spoken to. Now, she looked toward Mattie and cleared her throat, started to speak but changed her mind..

“Joyce is a little shy, Karen. Has trouble expressing herself!” Mattie’s smile covered them all.

“About as shy as a stripper!” Annette’s giggle was new to everyone, it had taken her a long time to find humor in anything, but lately she bubbled with good humor. “That's our little Joyce. She'll grow on you, Karen!” Another giggle.

“I can’t help it, I’m gettin’ vibes here. Karen's just not sure ‘bout all this!” She waved her hand about. “She's wishin’ she’d never opened this can of worms!”

“No, I’m really grateful,“ Karen spoke to them all, then to Mattie. “I really am, Mattie. For everything. This place, well, it’s just beautiful, but I need to go home. Where‘s Jude? Could she take us home?”

“I knew it!” Joyce took a pillow from the loveseat and went to sit on the floor in front of Karen. “It‘s too soon, Karen. You are safe here, your kids are safe, and having fun. Look at them, see?”

They all watched the children playing tag, chasing each other, laughing. Carefree. Grace had placed Sissy on a quilt on the ground, where she lay sucking her bottle.

“They’re young, Karen,” Frances lit another cigarette. “The older they get, the more damaged they are. Look at my Rita.” Her round face crinkled, as she pressed her lips together tightly, but lost out to the tears She took a tissue from her dress pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “But you can change things for those kids! Don’t go back to him!”

“Yeah, sweetheart, what’s your hurry?” Joyce asked. “We’re all takin’ it one day at a time. Especially me!”

“But I have no money, nothing!“ For the first time Karen let herself go. Sitting there, surrounded by strangers, she held her face in her hands, and sobbed like a heartbroken child. “But Johnny’d never hurt the kids!” She blurted through her fingers.

“When he hurts you, he hurts his children.“ Joyce scooted closer, patting Karen’s foot gently. No one spoke again until the crying subsided.

“You need no money here, Karen. You need nothing but time. Won’t you give yourself that? A kind of hiatus between the past and the future.” Mattie rose to answer the phone in her nearby office. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Karen reached for a tissue on a table next to her, and dried her eyes. She turned again to watch the children in the yard. J. J. and James played in the sandbox. Lindy was tugging on Rita's hand, pulling at her in Lindy's bossy way. "Come on, Rita, come swing us," Lindy insisted. Rita reluctantly followed, with the tenacious Lindy dragging her onward with both hands. Chubby little Millie skipped along behind, pigtails bouncing on her shoulders. Grace cradled the sleeping Sissy, rocking slightly back and forth on the bench, her attention constantly darting from one child to the next. They could have been posing for a Rockwell painting.

"No, Joyce, this wasn't the first time the son of a bitch hit me." Karen pulled her attention away from the playground, giving Joyce a half-hearted grin. "But this one was the worse." She brushed a strand of tawny brown hair away from her cheek. "How long have you been here, Annette?"

"The longest. I'm afraid I'll wear out my welcome!" Another giggle. "Be eight months July 4th."

"Annette." Mattie stood beside her chair, hesitating before speaking again.

"What is it?" Annette could see, as they all could, that something was wrong, Mattie's face was too serious.

"Wayne was released this morning."

Annette caught her breath, both badly scarred hands flying to her chest, grabbing at her blouse, clutching at her chest. She looked like she would faint, her face ghost white. Her blue eyes clung desperately to Mattie's.

"They let him out, that was his parole officer letting us know."

"Already? I thought the prick got a year!" Joyce had jumped to her feet and quickly moved to stand beside Mattie.

"He's been a good boy."

“What if someone tells him where we are?” Annette’s terror shook her entire body and she hugged herself to control the trembling. “He’s smart, he’ll find out!”

“Stop it, Annette!” The authoritative tone coming from Laverne shocked them, so unlike her to speak at all, much less in that commanding way. The intensity of the look she flashed Annette darkened her eyes into glinting black orbs. "He can not hurt you here!" She rose from the love seat, and moved to the window. Her arms folded, her back to the others, she stood there scanning the property, like a raven on a wire, dark head darting from side to side,

"I'll alert Ted and Frank, and the others," Mattie continued, "and we'll contract extra security, it'll be a big mistake for him, or anyone else, to show up here, so don't worry, Annette." Mattie took a Lucky Strike from the pocket of her gray gabardine slacks. She lit it, inhaled, and then released a thin ribbon of smoke to waft around her head. "Laverne is absolutely right!"

Intuitively, Mattie knew that Laverne had crossed some kind of internal marker, that she had drawn on a piece of strength she had not known was there. Perhaps this childless woman felt a survival instinct stronger for the needs of others than she had ever felt for own. Mattie suspected that Annette's understandable panic had triggered an impulse buried deep inside Laverne. Laverne had been with them long enough to witness the emergence of Annette's giggle, had seen the recent light-heartedness in her, the beginning of healing. Like a mother panther, Laverne had sprung into action to protect the progress Annette had made, to guard that wonderful giggle. Mattie realized there was an opportunity here, and she acted on it. "Laverne, would you consider moving in with Annette and her kids for the next few days?"

Laverne didn't respond immediately, didn't turn around, just kept looking into the distance.

"I'm going to get James and Millie, I want them inside!" Annette bolted from the sofa, and charged for the door.

"Wait, I'll go with you." Laverne was behind her, giving Mattie a quick nod in passing, following Annette from the room.

"Brilliance!" Joyce beamed her approval up to Mattie. "Wow!" Again, the phone rang.

"I'll get that, Mat!" Joyce said.

"No, I'm expecting a call." Mattie hesitated in the hallway, letting the phone ring again. "But, would you find someone to take Annette's place today, doing the laundry?"

"You bet."

"Hello," Mattie's voice carried into the living room. "Yes, can you hold on?" She laid the phone receiver on the desk, and stuck her head around the door. "Can you wait, Karen, I want to talk to you a little longer. Be right back."

"Come, Fran, let's do laundry, you can help me fold!" Joyce turned to point a finger at Karen. "And you stay put!"

Joyce taking charge was accepted, and the others had come to depend on her, Mattie included. Mattie had growing concerns, and today's disturbing news only added to them. She knew that the women were taking too long to move on with their lives. She knew she was to blame for it. She wanted to keep them there, safe, as long as possible, but by doing so, she increased the danger of their location being discovered. The core idea from the beginning, the basic purpose of The Right Place was to transition every one who came there into outside lives as soon as they were able to support themselves and their children.

Annette was capable of that now, had been for at least a month, but the group had become so much a family, Mattie had waited. She had spoken to her old friend Annie last week about a future placement for Annette. The two women seemed a good match, even shared the same first name. Annie and Haskell Martin had expanded their grocery store near Pottsboro, adding a gift shop, and increasing Annie's mail order business. Assisting Annie with the mail order business seemed the perfect position for Annette. The farm would be ideal for the children, and the nearby vacation cabins on the lake were now being rented to long term tenants. Mattie decided to move Annette in that direction, quickly.

Joyce, on the other hand, reminded Mattie of herself in so many ways, and she trusted her insight, her shrewd management abilities. She was the first of the women to live there with the potential Mattie was looking for in an assistant. An Assistant Director. Joyce possessed what Mattie considered controlled compassion. The handling of the challenges in her own life when given the chance she'd needed, impressed Mattie. Everyone wanted Joyce on their side and Mattie knew the feisty little blond, after a very long time, had found a reason for living. Mattie recognized that she herself lacked Joyce's controlled compassion, for Mattie felt everyone's pain too personally. In that respect, Mattie saw in Joyce someone better suited for day to day operations than she was.

And Mattie felt some of her old restlessness stirring. She wanted to spend more time with Max, and learn more about his business, and to enjoy their marriage. To socialize with friends, and family. To take a more active part in her daughters' lives, in their interests. Edie's talent, for instance. Her sketching surprised them all when she had begun taking her pad out to the gazebo in the back yard, spending hours there alone. She never volunteered her drawings, so no one pressed her. The teenager liked her private time, so it wasn't unusual, One day Mattie wandered out, to casually peek over her daughter's shoulder, and discovered Edie's gift. Now, at fourteen, Edie was already thinking about art schools, even had requested packets from several institutes in Europe.

Mattie's work here had consumed most of her time, without a break, first in the planning, then the establishing, and now the operations. The same was true for Max, for he had thrown himself tirelessly into CDC, Inc. and it was paying off, both in Dallas and in Houston.
The Right Place was well supported now, in good hands all around, and she felt herself becoming less needed. It had become its own entity.

She knew that Jude's business required more and more of her attention, and Davy was growing up fast, would be starting school in the fall. Jude's time with the women and children here had decreased to only a couple hours each morning on most days. Mattie also suspected that the long friendship between Jude and Charlie Percy was developing into something more.

It was transition time, for all of them.

FATHER UNKNOWN

Spring, 1950

Chapter One

The first light of day--breaking through the crack between earth and sky, spraying and splattering the enormous branches and leathery leaves of the seven ancient magnolia trees lining the east end of the property--was Jude’s perfect time. She began her day early, arriving on the premises around six. On clear mornings, such as this one, she enjoyed sitting in the glider at the far edge of the patio, sipping her coffee. Quietly alone, undisturbed by the distant hum of traffic or the occasional engine starting in the neighborhood somewhere, Jude watched the sunrise, and marveled at the complex patterns of life.

Somehow, those giant magnolia trees had survived the centuries, prospering there despite the stubborn black clay, the long dry heat of Dallas summers, against all odds. In precise alignment, perfectly spaced, under the most unlikely, often intolerable, conditions, the massive old trees thrived. Blossoming, and re-blossoming, year after year, the creamy white flowers infused the air with their classic honey-sweet fragrance. Their majestic presence, their mysterious origin, was legendary. Jude Featherstone felt a kinship to those trees.

Those solitary moments of reflection were precious and fleeting, for the needs of the women and children who come to The Right Place--their fragile lives shattered like glass--required her friendship, her calm understanding, her gentle reassurance that they could overcome and flourish. Wise beyond her years, the twenty-year-old woman of refined substance identified with them all. She had lived in their pain, knew firsthand the helplessness of abuse and neglect, and its potential for spiritual and physical defeat. She was well acquainted with the indiscriminately crushing fist of fate.

Jude finished her coffee, her mind on Karen--the young mother of three delivered to them on Friday--and hurried into the house, into the kitchen where Gayle and Laverne were preparing breakfast. At seven o’clock, the meal would be served in the over-sized dining room, which accommodated as many as twenty-four chairs around an expansive oak table in a family type setting. By the time Mattie Caliber, Jude's mother and the director of the home, arrived at 8:30, everyone would have eaten, the women relaxing in the living room for introductions of newcomers, instruction, and encouragement.

A cul-de-sac just off a main thoroughfare between Dallas and Rockwall Counties fronted the residence, situated on a five-acre expanse of prime real estate. Established by Mattie Caliber as a posthumous memorial to Samuel and Claudia Wright, The Right Place was grounded in the tenets of reciprocity, was founded on the Wrights’ principle that there exists a natural obligation to extend a helping hand, especially to women and children in need. Sam and Claudia Wright had been Mattie's salvation at a time in her life when she had floundered on the brink of a mental breakdown, having lost her entire family.

Presently there were five women and six children living at the sanctuary, its location and purpose carefully guarded for the safety of those it served. Only the director’s family, her attorney, and closest associates knew the location of The Right Place. Working exclusively with family services’ department head, Miriam Berry, and family friend, Dr. Al Percy, the establishment provided a safe, uplifting environment where those in need could be sustained and restored, and receive the opportunity to gain control of their lives. The home, fully funded by the Wright Foundation, opened its doors two years ago last month, on April 1.

Teacher Evelyn Watson, guided by state mandated curriculum and requirements, tutored school age children in a fully-equipped classroom, as special effort was made to keep the students on track academically during this transitional period in their lives.  Although school was out for the summer, story time continued after lunch for the school age children just as it did when classrooms were in session.  Evelyn had begun Ten Weeks with a Circus, reading a chapter each day about the runaway orphan boy, Toby Tyler, encouraging discussion and journal writing. Sometimes the children compared their own problems with those of the characters in the stories. Evelyn believed the discussions and the writing, following the daily readings, helped them to express themselves, to understand that conflict in life happens, and that they were not alone. The journals were often emotional and revealing, giving Evelyn insight into each child‘s special circumstance.

Closely supervised, all the children  played in the recreational areas located in the lower level of the sprawling, split-level home, or outdoors in the secluded back yard park protected by an impenetrable privacy fence that enclosed the sizable property. Some mornings Jude brought her son Davy with her, but today he was with Papa Max.

“You need some help?” Jude asked Laverne, who was filling bowls with dry cereal and placing them on the long serving counter separating the kitchen from the dining room.

“I need some milk and more sugar,” Laverne said, “and silverware.”

“How about juice?”

“Oh, that, too.” Laverne’s thin face blushed, as it always did when anyone directly engaged her in conversation. “I forgot.” Diverting her eyes, she added, “Bananas. Need those, too.” She was twenty-six and childless, her face as scarred from years of beatings as her fragile psyche. Into her third week at the home, this was her first day at kitchen duty.

“You’re doing great, Laverne, I’ll help you with the rest of the cereal.” Jude gave her a wink and an encouraging smile.

“Why look at you!” Jude retrieved a jug of milk from the dairy refrigerator, and nudged Gayle playfully. “I love your new hairdo! Very flattering.”

“Thanks,Sweet Tart, but I’ll like it better in a couple of weeks, it’s a tad too short for my liking.” The large, older woman’s shoulders shook with her lilting laughter. Her plump freckled bare arms and strong hands briskly whisked a bowl-full of eggs for omelets. Bacon sizzled on the griddle. “But it’s easy! All I have to do is brush it and go. I never have been one to fuss over myself, as you can tell!”

“Oh, Gayle, this kitchen wouldn’t be the same without your beautiful face in the mornings!” Jude said.

Gayle twisted around to grin broadly and roll her eyes at Jude, then returned to whisking the eggs, her entire body involved in the action.

Gayle Morrison was an exceptional cook, one of two kitchen managers; she was a trained dietitian who planned every meal. Gayle had the morning shift, but was joined by Lucille Dotson, equally qualified and experienced, for the lunch preparation, after which Gayle’s workday ended. Lucille took charge of the kitchen for the rest of the day. These two women, and their husbands, made up two-thirds of the salaried staff.  Evelyn Watson, and housemother, Grace Moore, were the other two members. All had been there since the beginning, and each lived in private apartments on the premises. Gayle and Lucille were married, living with their husbands. Ted Morrison and Frank Dotson shared maintenance duties, including lawn care. Grace, being widowed, lived alone. Evelyn Watson had never married.

“And you know it!” Jude removed the lid from a full bottle of milk and placed it on the serving bar. “I wonder if Karen has interacted with everyone yet. Mama said she rested most of the weekend.” Jude began filling the remaining bowls with cereal, while Laverne set out glasses for the juice and milk.

“Yes, she ate some,” Laverne said. “A little.” The fact that Laverne felt confident enough to speak encouraged Jude.

“How did she look? Was she feeling okay?”

“She looked awful beat up.” Her words sounded flat, without emotion, as Laverne continued with her chores. However, Jude was pleased with the progress Laverne had made, just over the weekend.

“I know, she looked bad on Friday.”

“I haven’t met her yet, she didn’t come to the dining room for breakfast or lunch, all weekend,” Gayle said, carrying a stack of empty trays to the serving bar. “That’s the down side of not being here all day, miss the late arrivals.”

“Well, you can always stay, you know!” Jude teased.

“I would if my knees would let me, but by two o’clock, I just can’t wait to prop up my feet, and you know I can’t miss my soap operas! Oops, almost forgot about the biscuits!” She grabbed a mitt, and opened one of the oven doors.

“I’ll go check on Karen, and the kids, before everyone comes in,” Jude said, being of no more use in the kitchen.“Be right back.”

She hurried down the wide corridor leading to the north wing, which housed three separate suites of rooms for the women with children. Jude had planned the interior design for the entire house, but she most enjoyed the work done in the north wing, for she loved designing for children. Since Karen had three, she had been placed in the apartment with two bedrooms. Jude had patterned this particular suite after the first rooms she had ever designed: Edie’s, her younger sister, and Jude’s own room, which she shared with  Davy, at her parents’ home in Oak Cliff. Now six, Davy wanted a room of his own, so she had added a new project to her long list.

She opened her interior decorating business last year. Caliber Development and Construction, CDC, Inc., had been her first client, and remained her most important one. With all the new motels, shopping centers, and housing developments, designed and constructed by her stepfather’s company, she quickly had become overwhelmed. She realized that she needed a partner, a staff, and a real office in a commercial location, not the upstairs apartment at home which had become her temporary workplace. She kept most of her samples and other related materials there and sometimes used the apartment to meet with clients. But she needed help.

She knew she must tackle the task of finding a partner immediately, someone with business sense, accounting knowledge, and presentation abilities, for in that area she realized her limitations quickly. She was also considering her own in-house crew of painters, paperhangers, and window treatment specialists, rather than sub-contracting the work, as she had done from the beginning. Charlie Percy’s face flashed across her mind, reminding her of their dinner date that evening, as she knocked on Karen’s door. I will think about that tonight.

Four-year-old Lindy opened the door and peered up at Jude. Lindy was dressed, her hair neatly combed.

“Hello, there. Remember me?” Jude squatted to eye level with the precocious child.

“Yes,” the little girl said, bobbing her head.“Mom-m-ma, somebody’s here!”

“It’s me, Jude.Thought I’d—“

“Oh, hi,” Karen said, coming to the door, Sissy on her hip.

“Y’all ready for breakfast?”

“We were just waiting for the buzzer. Come on, J.J.” Karen motioned with her free hand for her two-year-old son.

“I thought I’d walk to the dining room with you.” Jude smiled at the young mother, relieved that most of the swelling was gone from her face; the purple-yellowish discoloration remained around the stitches in her brow.

“You look good, how is your shoulder?”

“I feel much better, thanks. A little uneasy about seeing everyone, but I know I cannot stay cooped up here, although it is a beautiful place. I am still in shock, the way me and the kids wound up here.” She shook her head, her long ponytail swinging across her shoulders. “I can’t believe it, clothes here for us, and everything.”

She looked down at the new skirt and blouse she had found in the closet.“I didn’t think of bringing anything with us, when we left the house yesterday, all I could think about was leaving before Johnny came back.” Her dark eyes probed Jude’s, sending a silent message of confused gratitude.

“I grabbed a couple of bottles for Sissy, and her diapers, and that was it!” She shifted Sissy a little. “I mean, what do I do about our clothes, our stuff? Everything we have in the world is at the house.”

“I know. But, you’re going to be fine, give yourself a couple more days. When you can use that shoulder, you’ll feel better.”

“I had no idea what would happen, when I went to the sheriff’s office, and I was really in bad shape, wasn’t thinking clearly at all,”

“You did exactly the right thing, Karen,” Jude assured her, “And don’t look back, think only about today, what you can do today for yourself and your kids.” She laughed, raising her dark brows, and taking a deep breath. “That will give you plenty to do, and we will deal with tomorrow when it comes!” She smiled, and added, “You are safe, and we are here to help you.”

But already Karen was showing regret. Jude had seen it often, more often than not, in the women who came from situations like Karen's. Her body language whispered it, the need to get back to her life, to where she belonged, to try harder to please her husband. Jude recognized the fear, and the guilt, there: the fear that she had made matters worse, and the guilt that she had abandoned her husband when he needed her the most. The guilt too often won out. Jude had seen too many return to more of the same. She feared for Karen.

Jude turned her attention to Lindy and J.J. “Have you kids been outside yet? It’s a beautiful day.”

“Go play?” J.J.’s blue eyes popped in excitement. “Momma, c’mon!” he begged, heading for the door. In the hallway, the mealtime buzzer sounded.

“After breakfast, you can go play.” Karen guided her children though the door behind Jude. Lindy and J.J. rushed down the hallway. “Wait, kids,” their mother called. “Don’t run.”

“Hi, Sissy,” Jude said, smiling at the adorable six-month-old baby. “You want to come to me?” Sissy clung to her mother, pushing coppery curls against the gauzy sling protecting Karen’s injured shoulder. The baby focused on Jude’s face in wide-eyed curiosity.

Jude held out her arms, and after a brief hesitation, Sissy went to her, her head pulled back, her eyes staring directly into Jude’s. Jude laughed, giving the padded bottom a couple of gentle pats.

Frances and Annette, from the other two suites, joined them in the hallway, along with their three children. Jude loved watching the children’s  interaction, their guilelessness, their innocence, so different from the adults who often held back, wary of each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Not so with children.

Certainly not with the four new friends who walked side by side, like stair steps, holding hands, ready to go play! Although older, James and his sister, Millie--Annette’s two--still shared a commonality with little Lindy and J.J., having only known them a couple of days. The resilience of the children who passed through The Right Place warmed Jude’s heart. Always seeing the little ones, the readiness with which they accepted the changes in their lives, encouraged Jude everyday

However, Rita, the thirteen-year-old daughter of Frances, displayed the reticence of some teenagers, not fitting in with the children, or the adults. She hung back, walked alone, behind the younger ones, but in front of the women. Watching Rita, the telltale slump in her thin shoulders, the limpness of her dark hair, reminded Jude so much of herself at that age, and thinking of all that may have befallen the girl already, broke Jude‘s heart.

It was for all the Ritas of the world that Jude came to The Right Place every morning.

Aging certainly has its perks, and I'm beginning to enjoy some of them.

One of my best, long time friends emailed the following piece to me the other day, one of those "forwards" we like to share from time to time, and because it came to me without the actual author's name, I am sorry that I can not give credit to the source. But I'm sure it was written by a wise, thoughtful, fun-loving woman!  I would like to re-post it here:

I would never trade my amazing friends, wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly.  As I've aged, I've become kinder to myself, and less critical of  myself. I've become my own friend. I don't chide myself for eating  that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but  looks so avante garde on my patio.  I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.

I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon--before  they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.  Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 a.m. and sleep until noon?  I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60 & 70's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love, I will.  I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set. They, too, will get old.
 
I know I am sometimes forgetful.  But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And I  eventually remember the important things. Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not  break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will  never know the joy of being imperfect.
 
I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver. As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about  what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.
 
So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I  like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could  have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert  every single day (if I feel like it).

Thank you, Patsy, my dear friend, for sharing this with me. 

A Birthday Poem for Shannon
 

Most Especially Yours

Forty-two years ago today, you waited, impatiently,
in final preparation.
You grew stronger, swaddled in love and anticipation,
getting ready.
The day dawned sunny and warm overnight,
full of early spring in the coastal air,
with its ancient, yet brand new, promise of life--
Most especially yours.

Birth came in a rush, urgently, intensely, punctually.
No time for looking back, then.
And memories blur, but for that one defining moment.
Punctuated,
in exclamation, it remains always
embedded in my heart like a jewel:
that first breath-giving, breathtaking, awesome cry--
Most especially yours.

Infancy was fleeting, the most hasty segment of life,
marked by a few sleepless nights.
Quietly, you grew, swaddled in love and anticipation,
getting ready.
Seems as though I blinked, and you were a little boy
finding your own rhythm,  your space, your course:
how stunningly  quickly childhood vanishes,
Most especially yours.

The years went by, the days, the weeks, the months,
marked by social events, ballgames.
Friendships, school days, first love, life’s dreams ebbed and flowed in procession.
And I waited.
You left me unprepared, surprisingly shocked
by your empty closet,  quiet room,  my empty nest:
Every  exodus left its own kind of void,
Most especially yours.

The years go by, the days, the weeks, the months,
marked by living, death, work, play.
Families growing, everyone changing, aging in succession,
getting ready.
The next generation comes, and goes, the same as before,
everything changing, nothing changing, all adjusting.
But I'll never get  use to the absences,
Most especially yours.

I love you, Shannon. 
Happy Birthday!
March 16, 2010

At times, I find myself alone and in the dark, perched somewhere high out on a limb, so to speak, of the proverbial family tree. I feel like some old night bird curiously fixated upon those scurrying and hurrying about within my range of vision.   In an attempt to make some kind of sense from all of life’s conjunctions intersecting my path, I ponder the complexity of family ties.

Instincts cannot be trusted, and logic gets twisted inside the web of newly formed kinships, especially when the relationships involve a mother, her children and their spouses.  I know that I am a natural-born mother, no doubt about that.  On the other hand, to say with the same certainty that I am a natural born mother-in-law, would be disingenuous, and oxymoronic.  Granted mothers-in-law are products of the marriage process, but they are never born. 

Traditionally, there are two brands of mothers-in-law:  the son-in-law variety, and the more intricate daughter-in-law kind.  I happen to be each.   Comparatively, the mother-in-law/son-in-law relationship is not one of personal concern, for it is not, in my opinion, as complicated a relationship as the other.  Certainly, there are volumes of jokes and witticisms to the contrary bashing the wife’s mother, the old battle-axe.   However, for the most part these are harmless jibes poked in fun, to entertain the son-in-law’s buddies, the same caliber of humor as those ridiculous blonde quips,  the “little woman” jokes, and “you know you are a red neck if” anecdotes.

In reality, that same jesting son-in-law more often than not accepts his wife’s mother for exactly the person she is—the mother of his wife, no more or no less.  His relationship with her normally follows the wife’s lead.  This seems to me the most logical and rational of all male behavior.

Of course, there is nothing absolute.  When new bloodlines bring new beliefs, new attitudes, different manners, and modes into the family, the routine interactions of the original unit become more intricate.   More likely than not, this is most evident in the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law kinship as it develops, co-exists, and mingles with the other interactions at work in the family.  This unusual association intrigues me. 

An unseen ceremony takes place in the marriage room, paralleling the union of husband and wife, a separate joining unnoticed by the guests.  The mother of the groom must undergo her personality split in silence, graciously assuming the new obligatory identity thrusts upon her.  From that day forward, she becomes a mother-in-law, for better or worse.

From being a devoted, hands-on parent, her role must change instantly and curiously, into a hands-off one.   In that life-changing moment, when the pronouncement of man and wife is made, the mother-son bond adjusts accordingly.  Another dimension of mysterious regulations and codes has been added to the mother-son relationship, mandated the moment that final "I do" is uttered.  The new husband remains his mother’s son, of course, but in a less maternal way.  It is a strange occurrence and takes getting used to by all parties involved.  I had no choice but to let go.

As a new mother-in-law, I decided to pull myself back, out of the minefield of uncertain expectations and emotional upheaval, to evaluate the situation as a writer as objectively as possible.  During extensive research of the mother and daughter-in-law phenomenon in general, I was surprised to find that in most cases, the daughter-in-law tries harder to bond with the mother-in-law rather than the opposite as I had assumed.   The new bride, I discovered, feels the greater desire to earn the love and respect of her husband’s mother.  Nevertheless, more often than not, according to my findings, the daughter-in-law feels that she fails miserably, and must accept the stereotypically interfering, judging, demanding, or rejecting mother of her husband.  

How could I avoid having my daughter-in-law view me as meddlesome and overbearing, or worse?  I had been living under the assumption that because my son had always loved me unconditionally, his wife would too. But, what if my daughter-in-law had absolutely no interest in forming any kind of meaningful bond with me?  What if everything I did or said was misunderstood and taken the wrong way?   I realized that the dream of my family continuing in unified harmony, as it extended, was not a given. 

After interviewing a wide range of mothers and daughters-in-law, I came to the following conclusion:  When the mother and daughter-in-law enter the playing field, and both women will know when the game has begun, the advantage must always go to the daughter-in-law.  Otherwise, the mother-in-law will appear manipulative, demanding, and jealous.  The daughter-in-law serves the game ball. That is the rule.   It is a wise woman who, upon encountering her son’s wife, realizes when the ball has been served into her court. The way she handles that first serve can very well determine the outcome of the entire game.

I noted reoccurring indicators, red flags, throughout my research that guarantee a failed mother and daughter-in-law relationship.  Common mother-in-law missteps include the slightest show of superiority, the mere hint of verbal criticism, the scantiest look of disapproval, and the sheerest suggestion of judgmental body language.  Any, heaven forbid all, of these can kill the relationship before it ever takes its first breath.   Harmony, much less genuine affection, has a difficult time developing between the two women after the mother-in-law bungles that all-important first serve.

As a result, the relationship becomes one of tolerance.  Usually the daughter-in-law endures the mother-in-law, hopefully discreetly.   In this case, with some luck as the years pass, and the two mature, a common respect will develop.

Decades have passed since I first became a mother-in-law.  Through the years, I have learned enough about adjusting, accepting, respecting, and loving every new addition to the family to consider myself a mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship expert.  It is with qualified experience that I declare this link the most delicate and easily tarnished of all kinships existing inside one family.  It can also be the strongest, most enjoyable, and most unique form of friendship any two women can share. 

Grateful for the mercy that my daughters-in-law (I have two now) have shown me, I trust they continue not to judge me too harshly.  They know my primary mistakes were never mean-spirited, only thoughtless and uneducated.  Perhaps my absolution is found in the knowledge they have learned from me before they become mothers-in-law themselves.  I freely offer my shortcomings to them, all my bumbling, blurting statements, even a few outright crass remarks.  All my foolish blunders I hold out to them as post-it notes for things not to do.

To my only daughter, to my enduring daughters-in-law, and to future mothers-in-law everywhere, I bid you bon voyage, smooth passage.  Go softly and vigilantly into that unfamiliar place when your time comes, understanding that your actions will affect generations to come.  I leave you now with this warning: Watch out for that first serve.  It comes out of nowhere and packs a wallop.

The conclusion. . . .

The banker sat in his car for a moment, surveying the house in front of him. The home appeared to be in good condition, the lawn surrounding it, neat and well-raked with patches of new green poking through the remaining brown of winter. He could see laundry on the clothesline in the backyard, snow white sheets flapping in the warm spring breeze. There was no sign of a car, but the front door was open.  Obviously, the occupants were home.

He left his car, briefcase in hand, walking briskly toward the porch, noticing the freshly tilled flowerbeds bordering it. A sturdy, comfortable-looking rocking chair occupied the space at one end of the newly-scrubbed porch, a large swing, the other. He raised his hand to knock on the door frame, as Anna and her daughters greeted him.

"Morning, ma'am," the banker said, with a tip of his gray flannel hat. "Is your husband home?"

"No, sir," Anna replied, pushing the screened door open.  "You must be from the bank."

"Yes, ma'am."

The man got a whiff of fresh baked bread, the aroma mixing with the delicious smell of food cooking. "Do you expect him shortly?"

"No, sir, but won't you come in?" Anna stepped aside, allowing him to enter the living room.  She gathered her daughters close to her. The toddler was down for his morning nap.

The banker found it curious, if not disgraceful, that the man of the house was absent in the face of  his family's dilemma.  The image of the young woman, her thick, dark hair pulled neatly away from her face, tied with a pretty bow at the back of her neck, wasn't at all what the man was expecting.  Anna stood in front of him in her starched and ironed print dress, wearing a white organdy apron and a pretty smile upon her otherwise ordinary face.  Her daughters were dressed in frilly little pinafores over pink gingham dresses, each wearing white stockings and shiny black shoes. Their honey-colored hair was braided tightly, and secured with matching satin bows.

The mother and daughters stood in the center of the well-organized, though obviously well lived-in, room.  The windows were shiny and clean, not a streak or a speck of dust anywhere.  Neatly arranged, colorful pillows were tucked here and there, giving the faded and worn furniture the lift it needed.  Crisp, white tieback curtains adorned the open windows. He could see a large pot, its lid jingling, on the stove in the kitchen.

"Sure smells good," he said, trying to ease his own tension, more than anything else.  The three in front of him seemed perfectly calm.

"Just some potato and onion soup," Anna replied.  "The girls like it."

Getting right to the point, the business man removed his hat, sat down on the sofa, and opened his briefcase. "I'm sure you know why I'm here, ma'am. The bank has been very patient, given your husband plenty of time to make the overdue payments."

He paused, something capturing his attention in the other room.  "We can't continue to carry the mortgage on your house," he continued, as his eyes swept over the perfectly made bed, glimpsing the large handcrafted cloth rug on the linoleum floor beside it.  The man hesitated for a moment. An old sewing machine in front of another open window had captured his attention.

"I know," Anna said, "My husband has tried so hard to find work, and he does have some prospects." She kept her voice steady, surprising herself with the ease of the lie coming out of her mouth.  But her heart raced.  The banker listened, pulling his attention away from the bedroom.

"I know you have your job to do, sir," she continued as confidently as possible, "but if there is any way, could you give us another month? That's all. Just one more month."  Anna hugged her children, looked the man squarely in the eyes, and waited.

The truth was, she knew of no such prospects for work.  Her husband had given up, apparently deserting his family in their greatest time of need.  The loaf of freshly baked bread on the table had taken almost all of the flour in the bin.  The soup on the stove would have to be rationed, for the potatoes and onions were all that remained in the store house.  She had some beans, very little cornmeal, and a handful of rice in the pantry.  The cow hadn't freshened yet, and the two remaining hens laid sparingly. She had not planted the seeds saved from last year's vegetable garden.  What would have been the point, with the impending eviction?  The truth was, the clothes they wore were the best they owned, last year's Easter dresses.  The well-worn shoes had been carefully repaired and polished.  The truth was, Anna hoped for a miracle.  In her pounding heart, she knew that was all that could save them.

Again, the man looked toward the sewing machine.  "Do you sew?" He asked.

"Yes, of course," she replied, something quickening in her brain.  "I've been sewing my clothes since I was a girl, and now I make everything we wear.  Everything in the house.  Nothing is store-bought," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, laughing a little at the absurdity of store-bought dresses.

"Have you considered sewing for the public?"

Anna shook her head no, all the while wondering why she had not thought of doing that.

"Well, ma'am, you obviously have a real talent, and there's no reason you shouldn't be able to earn a living putting that talent to work.  I know my wife needs a seamstress.  Her dressmaker has retired." He closed his briefcase.  "I can send you more work than you can handle, if you're willing.  And yes, I'll give you a month's extension."

Anna gasped, but quickly regained her composure as the man continued.  "If all goes well, we can refinance your mortgage.  If you can pay the overdue interest on the loan by this time next month, we can bring your account back to current status."  The man stood, replaced his hat, and picked up his briefcase. "I look forward to doing business with you, ma'am," he said, offering his hand to Anna.

"Likewise," she replied, shaking his hand firmly.

Later in the afternoon, the fine lady in the black car returned, this time pulling into the driveway.  Anna was surprised, but glad that she would be able to give the woman her good news.  She also was pleased to have a chance to present herself more favorably, ashamed that the woman had found her in such a sad state the day before.  On the porch, Anna greeted her visitor, noticing the large basket on her arm, piled high with beautiful fabrics.

"I'm Jeanette Hart," the woman said, flashing a brilliant smile, "the banker's wife. And I need a dressmaker."

Story in progress. . . 

Anna lifted her tear-stained face, her attention drawn to the approaching car.  She remained seated there on the ground as the car came to a stop a few feet away.  A pretty, well-dressed lady, the lone occupant of the shiny black Ford, came to stand in front of Anna, looking kindly into her red, swollen eyes.  "What troubles you, my dear?" Anna saw the woman glance away, toward the children on the porch.  "Would you like to talk about it?" The pretty lady asked, her voice soft, gentle.  Her eyes fell to the letter in Anna's lap.

Anna wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and attempted to smooth her tangled hair, becoming self-conscious in the company of such a fine lady.  She started to stand, but the lady stopped her, and sat down next to her on the ground, waiting for Anna to speak. Anna could smell her expensive perfume.

Anna handed her the letter.  "Tomorrow is the third day."  

The lady read quickly, and placed the letter back in Anna's lap.  "Well, then, my dear, you have work to do!  No time to sit here fretting, worrying. That never solves anything!" 

"I don't know what to do!" Anna wailed, a new batch of tears gushing down her cheeks. "My husband hasn't worked in months, I have no money, and now he is gone, who knows where!"

"Your children are depending on you," the lady said.  "Their home is at risk here, so you must gather your bearings, your strength, and your pride.  You will be surprised what you can do!"

Anna noticed for the first time that the yellow jonquils along the driveway had bloomed over night. She signed deeply, and turned her head to look directly into the other woman's pretty face.

"What would you be doing under normal circumstances, had none of this befallen you?" The lady asked.  "Take stock of all your resources, Anna, and use them to save your family."  The lady stood, brushing away the dried grass from the back of her lovely blue dress.  "Be strong, Anna."

Anna sat there on the ground for a minute longer, watching the visitor drive away. Then she pushed herself up, brushed off her hands, and went to her children on the porch.

To be continued. . . 

 

When I was a young girl, I heard a story about a woman and the actions she took, simple as they were, to hold her home together.  For some reason that story has remained with me.   The message of the story is still relevant today, I think, for it speaks to the importance of the image we present to those in positions of authority over us, and the powerful influence that image holds, good or bad.   There’s still value to be found in putting our best foot, or face, forward.  Of portraying ourselves in the best light possible, no matter our circumstances.   Time was, a man’s good name was the only collateral he needed at the bank. It was his bond, and his best asset was his wife.   Times have changed, but the ideal remains, regardless of gender. 
  
In the story, the man’s good name had been squandered for he had fallen upon hard times.   Being without work or income, his savings had quickly disappeared, and the family had gone through a long, difficult winter.  The wolf was practically at the door, so to speak, in the person of the banker coming any day to evict the man and his family from their home.  The mortgage was long overdue.  I will call that man’s wife, Anna, and fortunate he was to have her.

 
Anna sat beneath the big sycamore tree by the road, in front of the small house she and her husband had purchased ten years before. They had signed a twenty year mortgage, hoping to pay it off sooner.  They had not missed a payment either, not in all that time, until now.  Her husband had fallen ill, and after two weeks of being unable to work, his boss terminated his employment at the pipe foundry where he had worked since they had been married.  He could not find employment for the whole country was in a depression. Many were without jobs.  
 
They had no family to help them, nowhere to go.  Anna held her face in her hands, and her thin shoulders shook with the sobs wracking her body.   She had reached her wit’s end. Her dress was wrinkled and soiled, her hair unkempt, disheveled.  Her three small children were hungry and needed shoes and clothing. The house needed cleaning, and the pantry was practically bare.  The children stood on the porch watching their mother, the youngest one crying, the other two looking forlorn, destitute.   Their father, despondent, filled with despair and without hope, had left the house at dawn without a word about where he was going and when he would return.  Laying on Anna's lap, the last letter from the bank, an eviction notice.  They had three days to make payment.   She was terrified.  
 
To be continued tomorrow. . . .

Fannie Smith Fox truly was my representative 19th and 20th century woman.  She lived under the most unreasonable circumstances women of her era and station experienced when finding themselves widowed with minor children.  I only knew her as my great grandmother, and by then she was an old lady and looked pretty fragile.  I wouldn’t learn until many decades later, the hardships she endured in her life as a young, single mother, her strength or the sacrifices necessary for all of them to survive.

I remember her only vaguely, as Granny Fox.  By today’s measure of age, she wasn’t such an old lady, only in her seventies, when she and I, for ever so briefly, occupied the same space and time. I discovered her extended encounter with the paternalistic court system overseeing women and property, long after the fact, while researching her family history.

My grandmother Emma, the second of Fannie’s seven children, told me that her father, Joseph Fox, had died suddenly one day out plowing his fields, when Emma was only eleven years old. She said that he had just turned thirty-six, and had been having bad headaches before his death.  Fannie would have been thirty-three years old.  That is all my grandmother told me about her childhood, other than commenting about having to work so hard growing up, how she would plow all day in the field like a man.  As the child I was at the time, I didn’t have the forethought to question her, to pick away at every little detail the way I would now.  Youth truly is wasted on the young!

Fannie passed away in 1951, and my memories of her faded, leaving only today’s vague image of her in my mind.  One day in the late 1980’s while searching through courthouse records, I discovered the reason Fannie left no property, owned no land when she died. Like her counterparts from neighboring farms, all of them from early pioneer families who had settled in the southern part of Hopkins County, Texas (many before the Civil War like mine) had established large farms, had worked many acres of land.  I had seen the land records, had discovered the early land deeds my grandmother’s grandparents had owned, and I wanted to know what became of it all.

I discovered the court documents filed on behalf of Joseph Fox’s minor children, upon his death, declaring them wards of the court.  Since young Joseph had left no will expressing his wishes for the welfare of his children upon his death, the court appointed trustees on his behalf, to oversee their welfare, under the court’s supervision.  Had Joseph died without any property, no such concern for the children’s well-being would have ever come to the court’s attention. Fannie inherited nothing of her husband’s property, and the law recognized only the children as his legal heirs. She had no rights, not even when it came to administering her own business affairs.  The court took charge of all her finances, approving the sale of the land, bit by bit, and doling out the funds received for it, as approved by the trustees, for the feeding and clothing of her children. The family worked the land, in decreasingly smaller portions, as it was sold off over the years the children were growing up.  By the time they were adults, all the land was gone.

It was 1906 when Fannie was widowed. There was no such thing as “community property”. Women could not vote.  When a woman married, she might as well have died, as far as her own legal presence and personal voice "in the affairs of men" was concerned.  And that was the way it had always been. Fannie knew nothing else.  She had no choice. She had no recourse.  She had no other expectation.  It would be fourteen years after her husband’s death, before Fannie would have the right to vote.  I wonder if she ever did. Somehow, I doubt it, although I cannot be sure. I do not even know if either of my grandmothers voted.  If they did, it would have been as my grandfathers instructed.

Fannie remained faithful to her husband, living the rest of her life in rented property. She died a short distance away from the family’s original homestead, leaving nothing of value to her children, if you measure value in money and possessions.   But, I’ll just bet you, if you could ask her today, Fannie would deny that, saying she left them very well off—rich in dignity, pride, respect for hard work, and the good name of their father.

We have come a long way, Fannie!  Rest in peace.

Candy Crowley, “State of the Union” host on CNN, is the best political journalist in the business, in my never to be humble opinion. She is a seriously savvy, right on target writer. Combine that ability with her rich, mellow, easy on the ears voice rarely heard in a woman reporter, and you get a balanced, smart message impressively delivered with the kind of authority some man once said no woman could ever sell to the public.

Well, Sir, Candy can. She has covered all but one of the national political conventions, since Jimmy Carter. She sat down for an exclusive interview with President George W. Bush a few days before he left the White House.

I would love to meet Candy, to sit down and talk with her. From what I have read about her, she steadily made her way through the male dominated journalistic maze of political reporting on the back of her outstanding ability, professionalism, and pure hard work while raising a family as well. Her children she considers her greatest accomplishment, saying that they love her and want to be around her, so she must have done something right.

Candy Crowley is a woman for our times. She is strong, passionate, tough, and compassionate. I believe she radiates the kind of female grit seen in Scarlett O’Hara so many, many years ago as she shook that turnip toward the heavens, vowing never to go hungry again! It’s that velvet coated ferocity built into every woman’s DNA that enables us, through seemingly impossible situations, to call into action every ability we possess when necessary, especially when others are depending upon us. It is the mothering thing, the animalistic instinct to protect our young, because we simply must. I think Candy has that same fierce determination to get to the truth, to protect it, and to effectively tell us about it, because she has no choice. It’s in her DNA, in her character, in her soul. Every Sunday morning, she will be in my living room, on my television screen, telling me the TRUTH about the state of this country. She tops my very shortlist of those I trust to do that.

I believe in Candy, and applaud CNN for giving her this well-deserved venue. I await her first of many books to come, which she says she hopes to write someday. I am hoping it will be soon.

Some of her awards include:

The 1997 Joan Shorenstein Barone Award for Excellence in Journalism for her coverage of Bob Dole's campaign for the presidency.

Associated Press Broadcasters' Award for spot news reporting for her coverage of the 1980 Reagan campaign,

Associated Press Broadcasters’ Award for in-depth coverage of the 1980 Reagan campaign.

The 1999 DuPont-Columbia University Silver Baton Award for coverage of the impeachment and trial of President Bill Clinton.

Columbia University's Armstrong Award for “Freedom is My Woman”, a documentary on a prison cellblock takeover.

In 2003, an Emmy for CNN Presents' "Enemy Within."

The 2003 and 1998 Dirksen Award for distinguished reporting on Congress from the National Press Foundation.

In 2004, the Gracie Allen Award for "War Stories" (in the National News Story-Series category)

National Headliner and a Cine award for "Fit to Kill." 

In 2005, Joan Shorenstein Barone Award for excellence in journalism for her reporting on the 2004 presidential election.

Juanita exemplified the good wife during her entire marriage of 64 years, 8 months, and 25 days, from the beginning til the very end. Always, without wavering, she devoted herself to Avon. He was her one true love, and remains so still, 5 years, 6 months, and 22 days since his death. Now, I loved my father, but anyone who knew him well, knows this took an extraordinary woman to be sure.

But for Juanita, the good times outweigh the bad, even to the point of denial it might seem. She saw always the good in Avon. Through all the hard times, which I experienced as their oldest of four children and will not go into here, she held our family together. No matter the address of the house, she turned every place we lived into our home. She did so, to the best of her ability, with unimaginable grace. Grace, well-seasoned with fortitude. With her own labor-induced sweat, often times personal pain, and rarely public tears. This trait is deeply rooted in Juanita, through her strong personal belief that God is in control. This faith has served her well, sustains her still.

She lives alone, in the small apartment she loves, surrounded by good neighbors and friends. She has time now for herself. Socially, she is more active than at any other time in her adult life. She attends church functions, goes to the beauty shop regularly, loves new clothes, volunteers one day a week at the hospital, reads more, and loves visitors. She most especially enjoys time spent with her children and their families. She and her younger sister are the only siblings still living, and they talk on the phone regularly.

Juanita Rhodes was born in 1923, at home, naturally, on the "old McCloud Place" which was located "back around by the Sells' place" which was located somewhere east of Arbala and west of what is now Hwy. 154 in southern Hopkins County, Texas. It was snowing that March day of her birth.

The fifth of six children, she grew up in the area of the Union Community, which is where she attended school and church. Her mother's family had settled there before the Civil War.

When she was about two, she fell and broke her nose, but a much more serious accident occurred one day while her father was chopping wood. Wanting to "help" him, she attempted to drag the axe over to him.It stuck in the ground and she tripped, falling upon the freshly sharpened blade, inflicting a large gash just under her left breast. It is said, they saw her heart beating. Kerosene was quickly fetched and doused into the wound before it was bandaged. That very common household remedy of the day was the only medical attention the injury received. The scar is still very visible today.

The family, nor the neighbors, were particularly impacted by the Great Depression. They were poor, had always been poor. It was a way of life. Juanita owned two dresses, her everyday dress and her Sunday dress. The everyday dress was washed at night, if needed. When the black cotton stockings she and her sisters wore became torn, they painted over the holes with shoe polish, leaving their legs spotted black when the stockings were removed.

Treats, or any kind of indulgences, were rare. At Christmas, there was the orange and apple, and eggs for breakfast when there was an excess, which occurred sometimes in the winter. The eggs would freeze in the hen house, and had to all be cooked at once. Normally, the only one to get eggs for breakfast was Ernest, my grandfather.

Ernest went to town most every Saturday for supplies in the horse drawn wagon (the family never owned a car), and the trip to Sulphur Springs began early in the morning, so that he would get home "by dark". Years ago, I was told he would bring hamburgers for everyone. Juanita said "they were "delicious", and that it didn't matter if they were cold and greasy. Now, she doesn't remember telling me that at all, doesn't remember him ever bringing home hamburgers.

The family almost bought a vehicle, once. The oldest brother, Buddy, talked Ernest into going to town to look at a truck he'd heard about that was for sale. The kids all waited anxiously all day, watching for Buddy to drive up in that truck. They were all disappointed when father and son returned at dusk, in the wagon.

When Juanita was about 10 or 11, one of the neighbors got a radio. Every Saturday night, she walked to their house, with a group of other kids, to listen to the "Grand Ole Opry." Juanita can't remember who the stars were, but "probably Kitty Wells and Red Foley." The "invention" itself, the radio, was thrilling, so anything they heard, any "program", was exciting. They could not leave until the show ended because they had to "listen to 'em blow the jug." I suppose that must have been the grand finale in those days at the Opry! It would be late when they hurried home in the dark, fearful of a murderer rumored to be on the loose in the community, roaming the sandy isolated roads late at night, looking for victims. She told me his name, but I won't mention that here.

When Juanita was fifteen years old, nineteen-year-old Avon Friddle, from the neighboring Greenpond Community, proposed to her one Sunday afternoon. It was during one of his weekly chaperoned visits, having met her a year earlier. They were in the living room listening to records on the "Edison", the family's new windup "victrola". Before the end of the next year, they were married.

Thus, in November, 1939, Juanita began her life as a wife.

The first woman I ever knew was Juanita, my mother, therefore she is the woman I have known the longest. Her influence definitely shaped the standards for my daily life, just as her mother's shaped hers. The way I go about my basic household chores, the way I cook, and raised my children (making necessary adjustments, of course), I owe to Mother. And that is only the beginning. Respect shown to superiors ranked high on the list of common courtesies and polite manners, so much a part of life growing up in my little cocoon-wrapped existence of the Fifties. Knowing one's place in a man's world, first as a girl, then as a woman, had been passed down for generations, instilled into us all as rigidly as the Southern Baptist doctrine seemingly running through our veins!

Sometimes even now, from here in this whole new universe of my life today, I am shocked at my physical resemblance to Mother, as well as the personality characteristics we share. My hands are becoming her hands, this I noticed more than ever last night. She and I can even wear the same glasses and see perfectly. Genetics are powerful!

Mother is the strongest woman I know, although physically failing now, having battled arteriosclerosis for who knows how long. She began suffering from angina in her early sixties, and underwent quadruple bypass surgery at about the age I am now, when her pain became too severe. Just as Bill Clinton is beginning to experience the maintenance necessary with the disease, Mother has endured for years, undergoing several stent replacements, and most recently, vascular surgery in her neck to remove blockage.

Thinking about it now, ENDURANCE, both physically and mentally, may be Mother's most defining quality, a trait common to all my grandmothers, including the great grandmothers, ESPECIALLY my maternal ones. With all due respect, I submit my poem inspired by them all.


FORGIVE THE GRANDMOTHERS
(1993)

Forgive the grandmothers,
their docile obeisance, their unopinionated views, their unassertiveness,
their servile attitudes.
It was absolute authority that made her bow her head,
a cultural thing that prohibited her, but praised and honored him.
Forgive the grandmothers for teaching male superiority,
for misleading us about what feminine decency meant.
That self-esteem was white starched shirts, shiny scrubbed floors,
fresh baked bread, piousness,
and literacy restricted to reading scriptures.
Forgive the hovering about,always at beckoning call,
for believing she was most attractive when he stood proud and tall.
For countless family dinners that served the men folk first,
while she was judged by tasty meals,
the value of her worth.
And for steadfastly believing her place was in the home,
while understanding when men folk gathered,
their need to talk alone.
Forgive her part in enabling him to reign:
head of the table, head of the house, head of everything.
Forgive her quietly giving birth
in a quality show of strength:
Any woman worth her salt, decently endured pain.
Forgive her performance of duty in keeping the children quiet,
careful not to disturb Daddy when he came home at night.
Forgive her mindless chatter,
her silence when it would have mattered,
for the mockery made each time she marked her ballot.
Forgive her disdain for the sister who resisted
by casting her own vote in protest, refusing to double his.
Forgive the grandmothers if you can,
for their clucking godliness—
Those little women of velvet steel deserve our graciousness.
So, forgive them, forgive them, lift up their lowered heads.
Forgive them their delusions, they knew not what they did.